Times are Tough, Get Tougher Wid 'Em
by JediKnightoftheRougeSquadron
Summary: A borough war erupts among the newsies.  Brooklyn is taken, and Manhattan decides to defend their own and take back Brooklyn.  Race and Spot suffer through it, but at least as friends.  Horrible summary, sorry.  NON-SLASH!
1. Prologue:  Seven

Yay, it's my first Newsies fanfiction! Also, I will write most of this story listening the the Newsies songs (duh!), Fantasia 2000, and Mickey, Donald, and Goofy-The Three Musketeers. You are forewarned.

Author's Note: Keep this in mind as you read, BOTH SPOT AND RACETRACK ARE SEVEN! BUT IT _IS _A PROLOGUE! Okay, not that that's out of the way, on with the story!

Prologue: Seven

Seven-year-old Racetrack Higgins was practically bursting with joy. Tonight was the monthly borough poker game, and Ace was finally going to let him play. Racetrack liked Ace well enough, but he thought that she worried about him too much.

He skipped down the stairs of the Manhattan Newsboy's Lodging House and ran straight into Phoenix. "You're finally getting to go?" the older boy asked. "Yep," Race said proudly. Phoenix laughed. "Just be careful."

Ace walked purposefully down the stairs. Race made a face at her. "You'se late."

Ace laughed and shook her unruly, tangled hair. "By what, fifteen seconds?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Okay, kid, we'se goin'!"

And they set off, Race tugging excitedly on Ace's hand the whole way.

"C'mon! Wese'll be late!"

Tonight's game was hosted by Brooklyn, where Ace had first met Race at Race's favorite place, Sheepshead Racetrack.

They knocked on the door of the Brooklyn Newsboy's Lodging Home, where Twine opened the door to let them into a small, dingy place with a cards table set up in the center of the room for the poker game.

They played for about an hour when it was 9:00 (Ace, Race, Sergeant-Brooklyn's leader, and Sneers-Brooklyn's second-in-command had all won some money) when a smallish boy of seven wandered down the stairs.

"Spot!" Race exclaimed happily.

Spot moved towards the table and Sergeant chuckled and took Spot on his knee. Sneers merely scowled into his cards.

"Nightmares?" Sergeant whispered.

Spot nodded and said quietly, "Yeah."

"Heya, Spot," Race said, apparently not having picked up on Spot's quieter-than-usual mood. "Wanna play cards?"

Spot slipped off of Sergeant's lap and walked over to the seat next to Race. "Sure," he smiled.

They re-dealt the cards and soon everyone except Race, sneers, and spot was out. The pile of money grew bigger and bigger. Soon, Sneers got out, cursing. It was only Race and Spot were left, until Spot laid down the winning hand.

"I can't believe it!" Sneers fumed. "Beaten by a six-year-old!"

"I'se seven," Spot said quietly but firmly.

"DON'T YOU TALK BACK TO ME!" Sneers barked. "I'SE DA SECOND OF BROOKLYN. I'SE BEEN ROUND SINCE LONHGAH DAN YA LITTLE BRAIN CAN FATTOM! I'M OLDAH. AN' I'SE RIGH'! BUT YOU'SE! JUST! SCRAWNY!" he practically screamed the last word.

"Really?" Race said, speaking up for the foist time. "Den why does Spot have dese?"

And without warning he flipped up the back of Spot's shirt. Dark welts oozed crimson blood and he had bruises that were mottled yellow. And this was just a bout a sixteenth of his back.

"_SNEERS_!" Sergeant bellowed, grapping Sneers by his collar. "If ya so much as step a TOE in Brooklyn, wese'll kill ya!" He threw Sneers onto the ground. "Ya got me?" he roared. "ISE'LL KILL YA MESELF!"

Sneers snapped, "Fine. But Scrawny, you'se bettah watch it. One day…"

"DIDJA HEAH ME? GET OUT!"

Sneers left one final glare for Spot, then spun and stomped out into the night.

They finished up about twenty minutes later when it was time for the boroughs to leave.

"Ya shouldn't have told him. I didn't tell ya so that you'se could tell everyone."

"Don't mattah. He shouldn't have been doin' dat anyway," Race said, before starting towards the door.

"Ise'll walk with ya," Spot offered. Ace was drunk and was bunking with Brooklyn tonight.

Race frowned. "Yah bettah not."

"Schyeah, Racetrah wil'be all wigh'," Ace slurred.

Racetrack frowned theatrically at her. " `M glad you'se believe in me `bilities _so _much," he said sarcastically. And he set off into the cool, moonlit night, unknowingly following the steps Sneers had taken almost half an hour before.

xXx

Sneers glowered as he left the Brooklyn lodging house. Who did that little kid from Manhattan think he was? And how did he know about Spot's beatings?

He jogged a little bit more when he idly noticed that he was in Harlem, Fishing Hook's territory, when a hand shot out, wrapped around his neck, and had him dangling on the wall.

"Hook," he choked out.

"Watchya doin' heah? Spyin' on us?" Hook asked casually.

"No. Wanna join."

"Yer from Brooklyn. Why wouldja wan to join us?"

Brooklyn and Harlem had a long history of butting heads together. Hook and Sergeant hated each other's guts.

"Given da boot by Sergeant. Want revenge."

Hook loosed his hold on Sneer's throat, who gasped in several lungfuls of air, and slowly lowered him onto the ground.

"All right, heah's watchya gotta do. Hold ya right palm out and repeat aftah me."

"I, Hook…"

"I, Sneers…"

"Will uphold Harlem to me dyin' or leavin' day…"

"Will uphold Harlem to me dyin' or leavin' day…"

"An' I'se will crush da uddah boroughs to da best of me `bilities."

"An' I'se will crush da uddah boroughs to da best of me `bilities."

"Good. Now come heah."

Sneers obliged, and Hook took out a pocketknife, and slashed both his and Sneer's hands. They both spat into their own hand, then into the others, and then clasped their hands firmly and shook.

Hook grinned. "Welcome. Now ya just gotta pwoive yaself."

Sneers thought back to earlier this evening then smiled.

"Got `ny trubbles wid `Hatten lately?"

"What makes ya ask?"

"Oh, nuttin' much. Just a little upstart..."

And then he explained his plan to Hook who said, "Good. An' if we can do dis, and make it happen like Brooklyn did it, we might even have a good war on their hands. I'se likin' it."

And so, Part One of Sneers's Operation: Revenge was put into motion.

xXx

Racetrack was walking down the lamplit street when a hand shot out of an alley and yanked him in. A rough hand clamped over his mouth.

"Don't ya dare evah again make me look bad, ya got it?"

Sneers then began strangling Racetrack, to the point where Racetrack was nearly unconscious. Sneers finally loosened his hold on Race's windpipe, but it didn't get any better.

"So," Sneers said conversationally, before picking up Racetrack like he weighed nothing and threw him into the wall. "I heah ya faddah used to abuse ya when you'se were a saplin'. I'se ready foah some `tainment."

Racetrack could barely breath at all, but managed to rasp, "Prepah ta be dis'pointed."

Sneers shrugged. "Well," he said, stomping down on Racetrack's leg before drawing a knife and advancing menacingly. "Let's just start by seeing how long it takes you to scream."

xXx

_One week later_

"I'se found `im!" Dutchy hollered.

Ace's heart started thudding between her ribcage so hard, it's a wonder no one heard it. After a whole week, the chance that they might've actually found him…

"You'se sure?"

"Nah, it's only a sack shaped like Rice. `Course is `im!"

Ace dashed into the alley where she found Dutchy kneeling next to a crumple Racetrack. One look at him was enough. His ghastly pale face and closed eyes testified of his pain. "How many injuries?" she asked rather breathlessly. Dutchy started rattling off injuries.

"Lemme see, well, uh… both legs is broken, cuts and bruises neahly _ev'rywhere_, split lip, and very large gash on that left thingy that is named aftah da church thing…"

"His temple?"

"Yeah, dat."

Ace took hold of Race's hand and stroked the back of it.

"Oh, yeah, dere's dat too…"

Ace was unsurprised to see her hand come back scarlet.

xXx

Years later, Spot grew up to be one of the toughest newsies around. He got a beautiful cane he and Racetrack named jokingly "The Black-Haired Wonder". He and his cane became very feared, and he was the most famous newsies of all New York.

As for Racetrack, well, he never really hit his growth spurt due to Sneers, who had forever stunted his growth. At age 15, he was way under five feet and felt like he weighed about sixty pounds. He became more of a cynical gambler, although the little kid was still in him. He also had another souvenir courtesy of Sneers, which were intricate, intertwining spirals on the back of his hand.

As for Sneers, well, word never really got out about him. They had a silence from Harlem all the way through the strike and after.

Eight years later from that night, though, he struck again.


	2. It's Good To Be King

I was at Girl's Camp for almost a week, so I did not have time to write. There were no electronics at _all _at camp. It was so much fun, though! And I typed this up listening to episodes of Bill Cosby going on, and I was laughing so much. Ha! Anyway, thanks to leah61909, who actually reviewed. I heart you! You are epic! And I'm sorry if this chapter is a bit confusing. I didn't know what I was writing at some points. My original paper copy is covered all over in question marks! I kid you not! Now, on with the story!

XxX

_It's good to be king_, Spot Conlon thought as he perched on top of the "throne" of Brooklyn. From here, he felt he could miss absolutely nothing going on in the city of New York. From there, he see from the tops of skyscrapers to the alleys where a group of scabs were soaking some kid to the market on the east to the…hold on, that wasn't just some kid. Spot's eyes narrowed. That was Trigger Fire, his youngest charge, and he was calling for help.

_Sheesh, what did the kid _do _to upset seven scabs_? He shook his head. He simply dropped down to docks and set off at a brisk walk, taking large strides. He came up behind the scabs.

"All righ', all righ', break it up," Spot drawled. "Why dontchya pick on someone ya own soize?"

The scab who had his fist drawn back to hit Trigger turned around leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. "Can't believe ya fell foah dat, Conlon."

Spot's fist clenched involuntarily as he recognized a face he had not seen for eight years. "Sneers," he spat.

Sneers, a huge sneer plastered on his face (I mean, it's not like his named for smiling, is he?), said, "Yeah, is me, Conlon."

He slowly took a couple steps forward. "Is been a long time, no see. As ya can see, I moved up in da woild."

Spot recognized all of the newsies as ones he had met in Harlem. Most of them were large goons with brains the size of peas.

Sneers decided to taunt Spot even further. "But you'se, well, you'se still _scrawny_."

Spot had always hated that name that Sneers had given him. Sneers had called him Scrawny when he had beaten Spot until Racetrack ratted him out.

When Brooklyn's leader back then, Sergeant, had found out, he had kicked out Sneers. Rumor had it (mostly contributing from Racetrack) that he had gone to Harlem. Nothing had been pulled during the strike, so all was well.

"Maybe, but I'se woik in Brooklyn. Da hardest place to woik. You'se from Harlem, a place where only snivelin' cowards can sell."

Sneers pressed his tall, powerfully-built body against Spot's considerably smaller and thinner one. "Oh, yeah?" he snarled, before Spot shoved him away. He snapped his fingers and the scab Spot recognized as Gills dropped Trigger, who just sat there, staring, as blood ran down his chin from his split lip.

The group of scabs closed in on Spot, and he looked around, weighing his odds. He then cleared his throat and gave the most profound counsel he has ever given to any one.

"Triggah," he advised. "Run foah it." As Gills lunged at Spot, Trigger scrambled out of the alley. Almost of its own accord, not unlike another extension of his body, Spot's cane lashed out and Gills went down heavily. Spot glared at the group. "Who else wan's a taste o' me cane?"

Not surprisingly, Sneers barreled forward. As he did, he pulled out a long knife. One of the Harlem boys tackled Spot, and did an awkward piggyback ride as Spot tried to throw his off. Scrubbers, the one who tackled Spot, grabbed his arm and twisted it back as far as it would go. They both went down. Scrubbers yanked Spot to his feet roughly. Sneers started soaking Spot, literally, in Spot's own blood, as the knife started cutting him. By the time he was done, Spot had nearly passed out from blood loss. _Just like Racetrack_, he thought rather hazily. Racetrack had nearly been dead when Manhattan found him again. He grit his teeth as the pain coursed up and down his body. Spot's legs finally were the last thing to be ravaged as he went down as Sneers kicked his feet out from under him. This may not seem to have much impact but Spot just about broke his ankles on the cobblestone. He spat some blood onto the pavement as he glared at Sneers. Scrubbers dragged Spot up, and he was surprised that the "king" had given up so easily.

Sneers grinned as he walked up to Spot. "We'se gettin' Brooklyn foist," he whispered in Spot's ear. "Den, it's Manhattan. An' dere ain't nuttin' ya can do ta stop it." Sneers brought down the handle of the knife on the back of Spot's head. Spot's eyes widened ever so slightly, then he finally seemed to give up, and went slack. Scrubbers dropped him on the side of the alley and stuffed a paper with a message on it into Spot's hand.

Sneers allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. He glanced back at the unconscious and bloody –ahem, _former_- king of Brooklyn, and then walked back out into the sunlight.

_It's good to be king._


	3. This is Definitely Bad

It was going to be two chapters, but they were too short. And I showed Newsies to my parents last night, and they liked it, yay! And give me flames, give me goodies, give me constructive criticism, but touch the button here and review!

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Newsies. If I did, I would not be posting it on Fanfiction, and you guys would not know about until I got someone to make the movie and yada yada yada.

XxX

Antonio "Racetrack" Higgins has seen a lot of strange things during his lifetime. But when he found an unconscious, bloody Spot Conlon in a deserted alleyway, he thought he was either dead or dreaming.

But sure enough, Spot was still there when Race opened his eyes again. He bent over Spot, and catalogued his injuries.

"Okay, dis is definitely bad," he decided.

He then spotted Spot clutching a piece of paper. He slowly smoothed it out and read it, his face going whiter and whiter.

It was definitely the work of Sneers, the high-class idiot. Race swore so badly, a seaman would have been embarrassed to listen. He swore in every language he knew, Italian and English and a little bit of Spanish, too.

Race looked at Spot. "We gotta warn Jack and all dem uddahs. But foist, I'se gotta geddya outta heah."

Race picked up Spot and staggered. Spot's not heavy, but Racetrack is one of the shortest and scrawniest people that you can find at his age. Even Spot, who is maybe five feet or so and skinny as a bean pole is at least slightly larger than the miniscule Italian.

He had made it about as far as Manhattan when he gave up. He found a manageable alley, and stowed Spot behind a large crate.

_Well, I'se don't think t'ings can ged any woise_, thought Race resignedly.

And then he felt a few drops of rain as they splattered onto his face.

_Oh, brilliant_.

XxX

Sneers smiled as he walked down the street in the fading twilight to a place he used to call home.

_Business, just business_, he reminded himself as he moved faster towards the Brooklyn Lodging House.

But he just could not wait to do this little bit of conquering. It wasn't anything personal; it was just that Sneers wanted power. And lots of it.

He finally reached the dwelling, and the golden letters on the awning had faded some, but it looked about the same.

He smiled again, as he shoved open the door.

There had been a hum of conversation, but all had ceased.

"I'm lookin' foah your leader," Sneers said roughly.

One of the newsies stood up. "Da name's Slinger," he growled, "And you'se lookin' at him."

"Really? I have heard otherwise. What `bout dat little twig named Spot Conlon?"

Slinger said nothing but cracked his knuckles.

Sneers was in his element. "Where is he, den?"

Silence.

"Aw," Sneers said in a little baby voice. "`As Brooklyn lost summat? `Ave they lost dere leader?"

Slinger looked angry enough to light some kindling. "Get out," he snarled.

"Look who's got a temper?"

Sneers, who had been prowling around the room, stopped in front of the door.

He then threw out a long object so suddenly that Slinger flinched as it landed with a clatter at his feet.

It was Spot's cane.

"Spot ain't your leader no more," Sneers said softly, "And ya know what?"

Sneers walked up to Slinger, towering over him.

"I'm the new one."


End file.
